Anne For Real | Formidable but Sensually Flawed in God's Eyes

I wish that I could be Mother Teresa, selflessly devoted to the needs of others, but I lack her character and her faith.

Thinking about Tim Russert and Mother Teresa, reflecting then on the terrible tragedies of the Kennedy family, and now Ted’s brain cancer, I’m inspired over their commitment to Catholicism, and their conviction that their Catholic faith has never deserted them.

This has not been my relationship with the Church. My story is nothing compared to the horror stories of young altar boys, and yet, it affected me deeply. I have never escaped it until now … this moment, as I make it real.

Another Anne, Another Scarlet Letter

In my case, God judged me harshly, placing a Scarlet letter on my self, when I was a young woman.  I went to God seeking solace, and instead he cut me loose from everything that mattered to me, forcing me into adulthood a month before my 16th birthday.

The irony of the moment is that the man who assaulted me, my parents’ best friend, received his body of God.  Together, we made two pacts the prior Saturday afternoon. Swearing on the Bible that we were telling the truth, Father Ben informed us that one of us was committing a mortal sin and going to Hell. Professing ours to be the true version of that dreadful night — when I truly believed I would die before morning — one of us made a pact with God; the other with the Devil.  

I remember being so uncomfortable with the Priest, as I sensed I was not convincing him that my story was true. I had not asked for religious intervention in this matter. It was forced upon me. My attacker and Father Ben were drinking buddies.

I’ve never understood the concept of double trouble in the Catholic religion. If I’m going to Hell anyway, why worry about messing up again? Father Ben explained that to receive the sacraments in this fallen state, would result in another mortal sin.

It made no sense to me, but Father Ben took being God seriously, and especially his resolve not to see me in further trouble. After administering communion to my attacker, kneeling next to me in a cruel moment of fate, the Priest paused before the much younger me … head back, tongue stretched out, waiting uneasily … and then moved on.

For non-Catholic readers, I believe that there is now a sense that the Priest is an agent of God, but in those days HE WAS GOD. 

Branded A Hussy …

The reality of life and human frailty crashed down on my head, because I believed Father Ben was indeed God. In those years, I was one of the most devout Catholic girls around, relying on my faith to help me deal with a formidable home life.

This over-sexed, spiritless, decadent man, who woke me with one hand in my vagina and the other on his penis (sorry dear readers) brought my entire belief system crashing down on my head.  The nightmare only ended because his wife, my adored, nine-month pregnant surrogate mother, arrived home at midnight.

Running away the following morning, before he returned to get me for a day trip to Sioux Falls, I never saw her again, yet another terrible loss to me. There was no way to keep her and our relationship out of the mess.  

Hearing hushed marital whispers down the hall,  I waited all night, for my early execution. I knew that something terrible was going to happen. Our families were best friends.

 … and a Diva With Raging Hormones

The Priest broached the fact that I was exploring my sexuality as a young women and, in truth, do have a gift for storytelling. 

Expressing serious doubts that the event had actually happened, my parents suggested that I was a diva with an overactive imagination. Their final commentary was that if in fact it had happened, I was the cause. As we all know, I seek the limelight.

I must say now that my uncle Vernon, my beloved aunt Mavis and my grandmother Marie … all the adult Enkes except for my father and mother … stood rock-solid behind me. Without them, I have no idea what I would have become as a woman.

via Flickr’s efforest

 … With Delusions of Grandeur

However, I couldn’t convince the people closest to me. I was either lying … or I caused the event to happen, according to my parents.

Don’t ask me how a teenage girl with rollers in her hair, sleeping next to this horrible man’s six-year-old daughter, is offering herself up as sexual bait … but some people on Planet Earth are genuinely perverted in their own train of logic.

My point in sharing this information with you, is not to rehash the long ago details of my past. My purpose is to explain that writing this Journal is an attempt to achieve authenticity, being true to myself, reclaiming my respectability, and testing your own relationship with me … all at the same time.

Some people make peace with life issues privately; I’ve chosen to do it in public.

My writing each week is an attempt to find my own limits with you. What can I say that will cause you to leave me, becoming bored with me or accusing me of being a fake … when I know that I’m not.

You Hang Tough With Me

Instead, my readership rises, leaving me with the feeling that in some crazy fashion, we’re in this life boat together.  I’m the ENFP journalist,the creative articulator of thoughts that you have in your own hearts.

Of course, we have our own individual stories to tell. Many people have life stories far more complicated than mine, but something in me allows you to touch your own selves … your own secrets.

Otherwise, you would not return each week. Your own lives are too busy.

Unlike You, He Didn’t “Get” Me

I would not have told this story today, had I not received a blistering email last Sunday.

Now, after heart-to-heart talks with Robert, my tough-girl trainer Mara — who wondered what the heck was happening when I marched into the gym, waving an assortment of photos, and a wonderful stranger who got sucked into my eggbeater yesterday, something in me has just “had it”, so to speak.

I’m tired of having my character analyzed to death by people who can’t separate fact from fiction.

You know, dear readers,  that I play the Internet dating game. I find it just as good — sometimes better — than the Philadelphia mother/son matchmakers who took my $5000, waited 72 hours and then phoned me, telling me that as a platinum blond, there’s wasn’t much they could do to help me.

Mom Matchmaker insisted that I become a brunette. “Your hair, Anne, sends a very negative message about your loyalty and ability to support your man. Platinum blondes have a reputation. I’m sure you know that.”

Actually I don’t know that, but I have come to understand that in some respects, she knew what she was talking about. Anne

Linking into this article now from the AOC Front Page, I didn’t tell the entire story of what happened to me after my sexual assault. I omitted this experience additional experience with Father Ben, a story I shared with Bro. Dennis this weekend:

I was sexually assaulted as a young woman of 15 by our family’s best friend. It was a nightmare and we ended up at the priest’s house, not the police station. It was just terrible because my own parents weren’t supporting me, although my grandmother, uncle and aunt were 110% behind me. Father Ben had both my assailant and me kneel down and swear on the Bible that we were telling the truth. My attacker could have won an academy award for his performance. I, of course, just did as I was told with no flourish.

Obviously, one of us was lying. Father Ben said that lying was one mortal sin and then having the sacraments would be another mortal sin. As providence would have it, the following day at mass, I came from one side and my attacker came from the other. We walked up together to the communion rail. Dick McCaffrey was to my right, as Father Ben gave communion. I can still feel his head back, as Father Ben gave him communion and they spoke. Father Ben then moved to me. My head was back, tongue out. The priest paused and then passed on, denying me communion. I was devastated beyond words. He might as well have hung a scarlet letter around my neck. Even though I knew I was telling the truth — and eventually this man was caught in another incident — the guilt haunted me for decades.